“You don’t like it?”
“I like it very much, and I like what it lets me see. Problem is, I don’t want anyone else seeing.”
She laughed. “That’s the point. Men look at this,” she waved in the general direction of her exposed décolletage, “and don’t see this.” She pointed at her face.
“And why is that a good thing?”
“Because, silly, they won’t remember my face, or notice if I’m looking at them or across the room. It’s perfect.”
Perfectly distracting. She had a point. “And that is all we are doing tonight—looking. If we find the snuffbox, Lord Q can send somebody else to take it out of there. Toussaint has already killed once. I don’t want him aiming at you.” He didn’t want Toussaint in the same country, let alone the same building, as Charlotte.
She shifted on the bench. “He already aimed at me once, and didn’t exactly miss.”
His heart contracted painfully at the memory. He rested his hand possessively on her knee. “Don’t give him a second shot. If he’s there, we’re leaving. Is that clear? I won’t take the chance that he might recognize you, even in this getup.”
She gave a murmur in response that he chose to interpret as acquiescence.
They rode in silence for a bit, Alistair’s hand still on her knee. The single lantern inside the coach cast enough light for him to see the growing excitement on her face. He could almost feel it thrumming through her body, just as it was thrumming through his. The adventure, the anticipation—heaven help him, he craved it just as much as she.
She cleared her throat. “Are you prepared for the way we will have to act tonight?”
He noted she still had not clearly acknowledged or agreed with either of his directives. At least she hadn’t disagreed, either. “Act what way?”
“As though we are love—as though I am your mistress.”
He grabbed her around the waist, eliciting a squeak of surprise, and gently settled her on his lap, careful of her stitches. “Like this?” He wrapped his arms around her, to steady her against the sway of the coach.
She had applied more perfume than usual tonight. He nuzzled her neck just beneath her ear, where he knew it made her quiver with delight, and inhaled attar of roses, much heavier than the light rosewater she generally favored. It had become his favorite scent. He had become intimately acquainted with all of her scents, especially the delicious musk of her arousal. Just thinking about it was sending his blood south.
She kept her back straight as a poker. “Do you normally have your mistress sit on your lap?”
Since he’d never kept a mistress, he almost laughed, but realized in time what a mistake that would be. “The only woman I want on my lap is you,” he whispered in her ear.
She might be keeping her back stiff, but she couldn’t hide the shudder that coursed through her as his lips brushed her skin.
Last night she had been incredibly responsive to his touch. It would be so easy to repeat the experience, right here in the coach. Just slide his hand beneath her skirts, up her silken thigh…
This was a monumentally bad idea. The motion of the coach had Charlotte coming into contact with parts of his anatomy that had no business having any contact with her until after their wedding. Sweet torture.
He should move her back to the cushion, but couldn’t bring himself to end his delightful torment.
“It’s all right,” she suddenly said. “I know it’s something men don’t have a great deal of control over.”
Ah, damn, she had noticed. “Boys may have little control,” he said, pulling her closer. If she didn’t bend, she was going to break. “But as a mature man, I assure you, the only time this occurs is when I’m with you, because I want so desperately to…be with you.” He nuzzled her ear again, remembering how she had shuddered in response. He knew exactly where and how to touch her, to elicit which sort of reaction. After they were married, he’d take her where she could be as vocal as she wanted, unlike last night when they’d both struggled to be quiet, to not draw attention.
She sighed and snuggled into his embrace.
A moment later she surprised him by nuzzling his ear, sending an unexpected shiver down his spine when she whispered against his skin, “Don’t cry out.” She nibbled on his earlobe, snaked an arm around his waist, and dipped her fingers just inside his breeches.
He grinned at the remembered admonition, and reflexively tightened his grip around her waist. Her dark red velvet gown invited his touch, exploration. He wanted to pull off his gloves and slide his bare hand over the soft fabric, caress the gentle curve of her hip, cup her breast, slide the low neckline even lower, and…
Just as he was about to toss aside all his good intentions and toss her skirts, the coach rocked to a halt.
He shut his eyes and drew upon the dregs of his willpower. “We’re there.”
“No,” she whispered, and kissed him just beneath his ear. “We still have a long way to go.”
Damn reading the banns, he was going to carry her straight to Scotland, marry her over the anvil, and have their wedding night above the blacksmith’s shop.
Just as soon as they retrieved the snuffbox, or she’d never forgive him.
He’d never been so reluctant to remove a woman’s arm from his waist. “Time to go to work, Charlotte.”
“What?” She sat up so quickly she almost tumbled to the floor. “Oh.”
He assisted her to her feet before he climbed out. The driver had stopped right by a mud puddle, so Alistair lifted Charlotte out of the carriage and carried her to the stone steps leading into the tavern, shouldering aside the people clustered about the entrance. He heard a few ribald comments directed their way, and overheard one woman negotiating fees and services with her customer. He wanted to cover Charlotte’s ears. She, however, was eavesdropping.
He paid the driver, tucked Charlotte’s arm in his, and sauntered into the raucous, smoky interior, feeling an altogether different sort of excitement from just a few minutes ago.
He loved astronomy, and had been studying the night sky most of his life. But no matter what secrets of the universe he unlocked, none of it made a difference in anyone’s day-to-day life—at least, not in any tangible, practical way. Getting back the snuffbox, and the damning letter hidden inside, was tangible. Would make a difference.
This was exactly the type of seedy tavern his father was likely to patronize, one that the duke would never enter. Serving wenches hurried to and fro in the taproom, ale and other beverages sloshing out of the tankards they carried, nimbly avoiding the occasional pinch or slap from the crowd of disreputable-looking male patrons. Several men had platters of food on the table in front of them, a doxy sitting on their lap, or both. Most of the women wore gowns that made Charlotte’s look positively prudish.
“This way,” she whispered, and guided him through a doorway in the back. They passed the kitchen, where steam and the savory scent of food wafted out, past the door to the keg room, and down a dimly lit hall. Soon, the clatter of coins being tossed amidst more raucous laughter became audible.
Under the guise of nuzzling her ear, Alistair stopped just inside the doorway of the main gaming room, which was filled with tables, chairs, gamblers, and more serving wenches. “The snuffbox is not likely to be in here.”
“No, it’s more likely to be in the office, the wine cellar, or even the kitchen. And there are rooms upstairs that can be rented.”
“All of which, I’m sure, were thoroughly searched by Steven and Gauthier. What do you propose to do differently than they did?”
“Succeed.”
Alistair threw his head back and laughed. “Shall we begin, my dear?” he said loudly, and staggered toward the nearest table with an empty chair.
Charlotte slipped into the role-playing without missing a beat. “By all means, my lord, let’s spend your coins.”
Her giggle was pitch perfect, but she didn’t need to sway her hips quite that much.
Once h
e was seated, she stood behind him, carding her fingers through his hair as he gave a cursory greeting to the other men at the table and ordered a glass of wine each for himself and Charlotte.
“Fresh blood,” said the white-haired gent to Alistair’s right.
“More import’ly, fresh money,” said a man with an enormous red nose to Alistair’s left. He hiccuped.
A third man, who looked young enough to still be at school, rapped his knuckles on the table. “Deal again, damn you!” Beads of sweat stood out on his upper lip.
Alistair placed his bet, and the dealer, a buxom, heavily rouged woman who might still be in her thirties, dealt him into the next hand of vingt et un.
Over the next hour, he won as much as he lost, which required more concentration than he had known he was capable of, what with Charlotte toying with his hair, whispering in his ear, and at one point even perching on his knee.
Thanks to his friend Nick’s tutelage back in their school days, Alistair was able to spot the markings on the cards, which almost made the game fair again. The other three men continued to drink as heavily as they played, and the number of empty bottles on the table grew. Alistair sipped at his one glass.
The noise level in the room rose concurrently with the quantity of alcohol consumed and the lateness of the hour. More than one man slipped out of the room, a giggling fille de joie on his arm. Some didn’t even make it all the way out the door before reaching into the girl’s bodice or under her skirts.
“That’s Mr. Jennison, the manager, buying stolen goods,” Charlotte whispered in his ear. She tilted her head, pointing out a man with three chins and just as many fobs hanging from his garish green waistcoat, who sat down at a table in the back corner.
As Alistair watched, Madame Melisande entered and sat down opposite Jennison, and spread her fan out on the table. The two launched into a spirited conversation conducted in low tones, until Jennison pushed a few coins across the table.
Leaving her fan on the table, Melisande got up and moved to a gaming table, sitting directly beneath the chandelier. Alistair had never before noticed how similar her build was to Charlotte’s. His fiancée might have modeled her daring dress and glossy black curls on the French courtesan’s, but Charlotte could never mimic the hard look that marred Melisande’s once-beautiful features as she scowled at Jennison, or the avaricious gleam in her eyes as she cast her wager.
Setting them apart even further, Charlotte had chosen a luxurious scarlet silk cape to go with her dress, rather than the more cheaply made black cape adorning Melisande’s shoulders.
Jennison tucked the fan into the cabinet behind him and turned his attention to the young man who’d just sat down and pushed a fob across the table.
Alistair nuzzled Charlotte. “Looks like he’s begun his night work.”
“Now would be a good time to take a look at his office.”
At the end of the next hand, Alistair made a show of stretching, and patted his belly. “Time to get rid of some of this wine, eh what?”
Charlotte obligingly clung to him as he staggered out of the room and into the hall.
“The men’s necessary is in there,” said one of the serving wenches, pointing over her shoulder. She blew a strand of red hair out of her eyes. “Or them’s rooms upstairs, what can be had for a shilling an hour.”
“Thank you.” Alistair didn’t have to fake the lurch to the side, as Charlotte stepped behind him the instant she’d spotted the wench, almost knocking him over.
As soon as they were alone in the hall, Alistair backed her up against the wall, planted his hands on the stained wallpaper on either side of her face and leaned in as though for a passionate encounter. “What’s going on?”
“That was Ginny. When I talked to her here last week, I was wearing this same costume, but told her I wasn’t in this line of work.”
“And you didn’t want to disappoint her, let her know that you’ve become a fallen woman?”
As he’d hoped, Charlotte laughed. “She’s already threatened to throw me out on my arse once.”
“Well, we can’t allow that to happen. It would hurt considerably more now than it would’ve last week.” He glanced up and down the still deserted hall. “Which way to Jennison’s office?”
“This way, I think.”
Several doors opened out onto the corridor in which they stood. When Charlotte would have opened them, Alistair pulled her back, shaking his head. He peeked into what turned out to be a storage room, the men’s water closet, and a private gaming room, before finding Jennison’s office. Several other doors, farther down the hall, went unexplored.
The office was devoid of people but far from deserted. The usual accoutrements of desk, chairs, sofa, and cabinets were cluttered with what looked like the contents of an entire town house. There was a narrow path to a massive oak desk, past trunks overflowing with china and silverplate. Dozens of candlesticks, from simple to garishly ornate, some even with candles, covered every available surface. Several glass-fronted cabinets lined the far wall, their shelves filled with everything from marble busts to diamond brooches glinting in the candlelight.
Charlotte lit another of the candles from the banked coals in the fireplace and held it aloft, revealing even more household goods.
“It would require days to search all of this.” Alistair turned in a circle, taking in all of the possible hiding places for something as small as a snuffbox. “Weeks.”
She kept her voice low, as he had. “We don’t dare stay any longer than a few minutes.” She set the candle down on a clothes press, lying on its side, and started rummaging through the chest of drawers next to it.
They both froze as footsteps sounded in the hall, then relaxed at the sound of masculine giggling and the footsteps receding up the stairs.
“We have to be methodical about this,” Alistair said, almost to himself. A bookcase nearby was loaded with small personal objects such as fans and fobs. “Could it be that simple? Hidden in plain sight?” He lifted the candle to illuminate the items in the back. He pushed aside hair combs and crystal scent bottles, revealing at least a dozen snuffboxes. “Are any of these the one we’re after?”
Charlotte eased a drawer closed, scurried over and stood up on her tiptoes to peer at the shelf in question. After a moment she dropped down to her heels and shook her head. “None of them are gaudy enough.”
She wandered toward the oak desk, trailing her hands over the objects she passed—a pile of beaded reticules, somebody’s family portrait in a gilt frame, a silver tea service—and sat in Jennison’s massive leather chair.
“Comfortable?” Alistair cocked his head to one side.
She propped her feet up on the corner of the desk and crossed her ankles, unintentionally gifting him with an extensive view of her black silk stockings. “Have to think like Toussaint.” She tapped her chin with one finger. “These are all stolen objects. Items that Toussaint and Sir Nigel have bought and intend to sell. Or are they? Is there something here that stands out?”
Alistair took another look around, and this time paid closer attention to the several objets d’art. “Well, I doubt Shakespeare ever wore a bonnet like that.” The white marble bust on the top shelf of a bookcase was capped by a cheap straw bonnet decorated with an unseemly number of peacock feathers.
Charlotte dropped her feet to the floor. “Can you reach it?”
“You think it’s hidden under the bonnet?” Alistair stretched up, and staggered back a step with the bust in his arms. The bonnet fell to the floor. “It’s definitely not inside the bust.” The solid marble had to weigh nearly two stone.
“No, I suppose not. Just someone’s bizarre sense of humor. Like tying a cravat on Caesar over there. I don’t think cravats were fashionable in ancient Rome, do you?”
Alistair lifted the bust back onto the shelf and tossed the bonnet up. It landed at a jaunty angle, dipping low over Shakespeare’s left eye.
“Unless…” Charlotte leaped over a st
ack of Wedgwood dinner plates on her way to the bust of Julius Caesar, displayed behind glass on an upper shelf in a cabinet against the far wall. She tapped on the glass, pointing at the marble figurine. “In Paris, Toussaint once used a hollow bust of Bonaparte to hide a cache of stolen jewels.”
He joined her at the cabinet and raised the candle high, shadows dancing over the cabinet’s contents. “What makes you think Caesar isn’t as solid as Shakespeare?”
She grasped his wrist and brought the candle even closer. “See the indentation beneath the cravat, all the way ’round the neck? The head comes off, and the neck is hollow, maybe even the entire chest.” She tried to turn the handle on the glass door. “Locked.” She grabbed the silver teapot and swung it back like a cricket bat.
Just as he was about to catch her arm and protest, she set it down again. “No, too loud,” she muttered.
“Key’s probably in the desk.” If it was there, and the snuffbox was hidden inside a hollow bust, he would concede she’d been right—men were indeed boringly predictable in hiding their valuables.
“You look for it. I’ve got another idea.” She reached under her wig, retrieved a hairpin, and bent toward the lock.
Alistair stepped over a pile of waistcoats, heading for the desk, but froze at the sound of footsteps in the hall. He darted his gaze around the room, looking for a second exit, or something big enough for them to hide behind. Would Jennison remember how many candles he had left burning?
The footsteps were steady, not those of a drunk, and still headed their way.
Only one exit. He grabbed Charlotte and they dove into the wardrobe. He eased the door closed just as the hall door slammed open.
“Greedy, conniving bi—” There was a crash as Jennison, Alistair presumed, kicked over the stack of dinner plates. Desk drawers opened and slammed shut, followed by the muffled clink of coins.
Alistair struggled to hold perfectly still in the cramped confines of the wardrobe, a task made monumentally difficult by having Charlotte tucked in his embrace, bent over. If she didn’t stop wiggling her bottom…Oh. This position couldn’t be comfortable for her, either. He hoped none of her stitches had pulled loose.
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